


Close Your Eyes and Count To Five

by Luna_Hart



Series: Five Minutes Of Your Time [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot Collection, One Word Prompts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Recovery, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, good guy Brock Rumlow, protective Brock Rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-05-21 22:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: Five one-word prompted one-shot stories featuring Brock Rumlow and James Barnes: Terminator, Knee, Plain, Luck, Favour.





	1. Terminator

“What’s a Terminator?” 

Brock nearly spit his coffee out as he turned to where James was perched at the kitchen counter. His hair was pulled up in a messy bun, one of Brock’s hoodies pulling tight across his shoulders. James’ coffee sat steaming between his hands and his eyes were unreadable as they looked across at him. 

“What?” he said intelligently, staring blankly at the younger man over the rim of his mug. James shrugged, taking a sip of his sugary caffeine. “It’s something Tony’s taken to calling me in the field. You know how he is with nicknames.” 

Brock grimaced. He was all too familiar with the man’s tendency of assigning nicknames. _Legolas_ for Barton, _Capsicule_ for Rogers. Even Brock couldn’t help but chuckle at the confused look on Thor’s face when Stark referred to him as _Point Break_. He’d also noticed that Stark hadn’t settled on one for James. He guessed the man finally found something he thought fit. The thing with Stark was that he could be an ass, good intentions aside. Brock wasn’t sure how the former HYDRA assassin was going to react. 

“So what is it?” James asked, eyes sharp. “It’s a pop culture reference,” Brock said slowly. For his weak efforts, he got the famous James Barnes eye roll. Seriously, Brock’s eyeballs hurt just watching it. “The movies are called The Terminator,” he elaborated slowly. “Brock, you’re stalling,” James drawled. “Am I?” Brock said innocently, taking a sip of coffee. He saw something flicker deep in James’ eyes, a tension beginning to seep into his shoulders. 

“Is it really that bad?” he asked in a soft voice. Brock bit back a curse. In an attempt not to say something stupid, he had said something stupid. “Fuck, no, I just…,” he trailed off with a harsh sigh, moving to lean on his elbows across the counter. “A Terminator is a killer machine that looks human.” he confessed, swallowing dryly. 

“Okay,” James said stiffly, narrowing his eyes. Brock waited. He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he was about to get. “That’s it?” James said incredulously. Brock blinked. That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. “Uhhh,” he said, his second intelligent response of the morning.

“Dude, I am a killer machine that looks human,” James snorted rudely, wiggling his metal fingers in Brock’s face. “So, you’re okay with it?” Brock asked doubtfully. “I don’t care what Stark calls me,” James drawled before narrowing his eyes at Brock. “Did you really think I would?” The older man froze, trying to back peddle himself out of the hole he seemingly dug himself into. James’ eyes were hard as they stared at him. They weren’t angry, they were cold. Icy blue and staring straight through him. The last thing he wanted was for an old ghost of who James used to be to resurface in the middle of the kitchen. It had happened before but not for months.

Before he could fret himself into a cold sweat, James face split into a massive shit-eating grin. Brock felt his knees go weak with relief. “Fucker,” he snapped crossly as the younger man started chuckling. “You should’ve seen your face,” James chortled, downing the last of his coffee. “I hate you,” Brock grumbled, sending the bigger man into another peal of laughter.

 

It was late when Brock finally stumbled back into the apartment, bone tired and yawning. A loud concussive sound coming from the living room made him flinch. He found James curled up on the couch, a beer in hand and Arnold Schwarzenegger on the TV. “Seriously?” Brock chuckled, leaning over the back of the couch. “I got curious,” James said, grabbing a fresh beer off the coffee table. He cracked it open with his metal hand before holding it up to Brock. The older man chuckled, rounding the couch and taking the proffered drink.

“I like how Arnold comes back as the good guy in the second one,” the man said quietly as Brock curled up beside him. Brock said nothing, knowing that anything he said the younger man would take as a bullshit attempt at comfort and, if Brock was really unlucky, pity. So he just reached up and scratched his fingers through James’ shaggy hair instead.

A couple hours later and the credits were rolling. James’ head was pillowed in his lap, Brock still carding his fingers gently through his long locks. “How many of these movies are there?” James asked, twisting round to glance up at Brock. “Three more,” he replied, finishing his beer. “Plus a TV series.”

“Well, I have no where to be tomorrow, do you?” James murmured. Brock snorted, shook his head, and snatched up the remote.

 

 


	2. Knee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that there are two separate stories in this chapter that are both inspired by the word KNEE but do not relate to each other in any way.

Brock couldn’t help but wince as James threw the poor SHIELD rookie to the ground hard enough to wind him. It had been eight months since Brock had helped foil the HYDRA takeover of SHIELD and brought James Barnes home. He had been an integral part of the man’s rehabilitation and recalibration, because he was a familiar safe face. For all the painful and awful memories James had tangled in his brain over the past seventy years, the ones that involved Brock were the best. He remembered the small acts of kindness the man had shown him over the years and the sacrifices he’d made to finally free him.

Brock was often the one to calm James down in the event of an episode, when a particularly painful memory resurfaced and with it all the guilt and self-hatred. Brock worked long and hard with the SHIELD doctors to break the programming that HYDRA had drilled into James’ head. After James had his mind back, Brock kept his distance. To say he wasn’t a favourite amongst many of the agents, and in particular Captain Rogers, would be a gross under exaggeration.

He’d been blindsided when Fury decided to keep him on as STRIKE Commander. In a way it made sense. Ninety percent of STRIKE had been HYDRA. Many hadn’t been loyal, tricked or bullied into service or had swallowed the sales pitch too fast. Brock had been one of those. By the time he realized what HYDRA really was it was too late and he had no way out. It helped to have a Commander who had been in many of the agent’s shoes.

Regardless, to say the elite ops squads numbers had been seriously diminished was an understatement. It was a slow process to build the ranks up again. So two months ago when James, no longer Winter, walked into Brock’s office bold as brass and asked to join STRIKE, Brock hadn’t even hesitated. Rogers wasn’t happy, to put it mildly, but James was stubborn and as equally hard-headed as the national icon.

Today they were running potential STRIKE candidates through their paces in hand to hand combat. Brock loved using James for this. The looks on the agent’s faces when James strode through the doors in a tight black shirt with it’s discrete STRIKE logo on the bicep, metallic arm flashing in the light. He’d scan the agent’s reactions, cataloging who looked nervous, or awed, or arrogant. There were always a few who thought their skills were on par if not superior to their assessors. Brock always felt a grim sense of satisfaction when he could knock them down a few pegs.

“Twenty-eight seconds,” Brock said, checking his watch as James pulled the agent to his feet and sent him to the benches with a clap to the shoulder. “Who thinks they can last longer?”

There was a buzz of mutterings amongst the recruit. Six out of thirteen sat to the side, sporting bruises and aching muscles. By now, everyone knew exactly what they were getting into by stepping up onto the mats and weren’t so quick to volunteer. Finally, one agent stepped forward, a small smirk on his face. Brock narrowed his eyes. This one was trouble. He’d had his eye on his for the past week of assessment and not in a good way.

Anders was big with well defined muscles that rippled under clothes clearly a size too small. He had a few inches on James and a swagger to his walk that made Brock want to smack him upside the head. His confidence wasn’t entirely unfounded. He was an expert marksmen and had passed all of his physical and academical tests well above average. It was his attitude that rubbed Brock the wrong way. Anders was arrogant. He thought himself above the rest of his teachers and teammates, especially the women, and that wasn’t how STRIKE operated.

Brock watched closely as Anders stepped up onto the mats. James looked passive and professional but Brock knew him. He could see the tension in his muscles, the way his eyes sharpened. Brock was happy to say that one of the candidates he’d had his eye on wasn’t watching Anders like everyone else was. She was watching James, a knowing little smirk tucked away into the corner of her mouth.

Anders stepped up onto the mats, making a show of shaking out his wrists and cracking his neck. James just grinned, more a feral show of teeth than a smile. It was the most expressive he’d been all afternoon and the dramatic shift had an immediate effect of the rookies. They all knew the stories, all the embellished tall tales of the ghost James used to be. Anders paused, throwing an unsure look back at Brock. “What, you waiting for permission?” Brock snapped. “I’m not your fucking mother. Take him down!”

Anders flushed an angry red, turning his rage on James. The man was a good fighter and he was actually doing pretty well. Brock knew better. He knew James was just toying with him. It all came to a head when James managed to trap Anders’ arms. The agent growled, slamming his knee up into James’ abdomen.

James didn’t even flinch.

“Come on!” Brock heckled as Anders struck his knee up, again to no avail. “That isn’t your grandmother you’re fighting! Fucking knee him!” The man may have been built like a brick shit house but he had no close range power. Clearly he’d focused more on developing his muscles for show.

James met Brock’s eyes, a silent exchange snapping between them. Within a heartbeat, Anders was on the ground, gasping for air with his arms twisted painfully behind him. “I’d yield,” Brock called mildly. “Another inch and he’ll break your shoulder.” Anders floundered for a moment longer before tapping out against the mat. James immediately stepped back and stood at parade rest, waiting his next opponent.

“Twenty-one seconds,” Brock called out as Anders and his bruised ego limped off to the benches. “Whose next?” No one moved. A pin dropping would have sounded like a gunshot. And then one candidate stepped forward. Brock tucked away a smile, seeing it was the one he’d had his eyes on. “Jennings,” Brock said with a nod. The brunette stepped up to the mat with no posturing, hands held loosely by her sides.

She stood calmly a few paces from James, waiting. She was patient. That was good. James shifted, slowly stalking around her like a predator. There was barely any warning. He shifted his weight slightly and lashed out with a swift kick. She was ready. Jennings spun smoothly on the balls of her feet, moving closer to use her body to block James’ kick. In the same breath, she grabbed his shoulder, dragging him down as she slammed her knee up.

Brock could hear the rush of air as is crashed from James’ lungs from the other side of the mats. He nodded approvingly. The rest of the fight was fast and didn’t last long, but they never did when someone was up against James. The only people who could last longer than a minute against James was Rogers, Romanoff, and Brock himself. Rogers because he was also a test tube freak, Romanoff because she was dangerous as fuck, and Brock because he knew how James fought.

The fight ended as all James’ fights ended, with him throwing Jennings to the mats. “Fifty-eight seconds,” Brock called out as James pulled Jennings to her feet with an approving nod. “A new rookie record and the time to beat.” He nodded curtly at Jennings before exchanging a quick look with James. They both knew she already had earned her spot on STRIKE, even if there were still three days left in evaluation.

“All right,” Brock said, clasping his hands behind his back “Whose next?”

  
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“Any questions?” Brock said, catching each STRIKE agent's eye in turn as he finished his briefing. “Alright,” he said briskly when only silence greeted him. “We’ll be on target in ten. Gear up!” There was a flurry of movement as agents bustled around the back of the personnel carrier. “Goggles and masks,” he called out. “No one gets burned today, is that clear?” Satisfied with the chorus of “Yessir,” that echoed through the plane, he marched towards the ramp where a lone figure sat hunched in on himself.

The Winter Soldier barely acknowledged him as Brock sat down in the seat beside. His ice blue eyes flicked up briefly before returning to stare out into middle space. The man was in full gear, had been for the entire thirteen hour plane ride. His black half mask fit snugly over his nose and mouth, overgrown hair hanging softly around his face. The leather vest fit close across his broad chest while a black harness strapped a Skorpion submachine gun against his upper back. His gun belt boasted a SIG-Sauer and a Derringer sitting holstered on his left hip, a large Bowie knife sheathed on his right. Tinted goggles hung from his gloved fingers, the red star on his left bicep a stark contrast with glinting silver in the low light.

“You ready?” he asked quietly, pitching his voice so to not carry further than the two of them. He could get away with interacting with the man in this way because he’d been the Soldier’s handler for almost seven years now. Even though the Soldier didn’t exactly remember him from mission to mission, some sort of recognition survived the wipes. It could almost go as far as to be called trust.

“Winter?” he prompted softly when the man didn’t respond. Brock couldn’t in good conscience call the man Soldier or Asset. It felt wrong, reaffirming that the man was nothing more than a tool, a thing to be used. Winter’s eyes slowly slide over to meet his. Something flickered in those startlingly blue irises.

 _Ghost eyes_ , the rest of STRIKE called them.

They all hated the man's startlingly cold thousand-yard stare. Brock was used to it. Winter wasn’t a very expressive person. His typically blank face was one of the many reason he made those he worked with nervous. They all thought he was nothing more than a soulless weapon, a killing machine with no remorse or conscience. Brock knew better. He knew that however much they had tried, HYDRA would never be able to completely strip away the man that made up the Winter Soldier. He just kept slipping through the cracks. Brock had seen pride, humour, confusion, guilt, pain, panic; all reflected in those icy blue eyes.

This look, however. This look he had never seen before.

The comms system binged, the pilot letting them know they were coming up on their drop sight. Whatever look had been in Winter’s eyes vanished, buried under the cold steel of the Soldier. _“Just get me in and stay out of my way,”_ the dark-haired man stated as he got to his feet, the Russian words rolling gutturally from deep in his throat.

“So it’s gonna to be one of _those_ days,” Rumlow muttered as he got to his feet. He accepted the rifle Rollins passed his way with a nod of thanks as they all assembled behind Winter at the aft end of the plane. Rumlow moved between each agent, yanking on parachute straps and double-checking gear.

An alarm blared, amber lights flashing as the ramp slowly began to lower. Clouds whisked by over a dark forest, trees so densely packed they completely obscured the ground. Their drop sight was a small clearing about thirty klicks from their target.

He stepped up to Winter, keeping his movements smooth and obvious as he checked straps and buckles. He could feel the tension radiating from the rest of the men. It had gotten worse since that mission in Nepal, when Brock had accidentally started Winter and the man had reacted by throwing him through a wall. 

This time Winter didn’t react beyond a quick flick of a gaze and a few plates in his arm shifting with a soft metallic clink. Wind whipped at his hair and tugged at Brock’s pants. Satisfied with his safety checks, Rumlow stepped back into position and allowed Rollins to do the same with his gear. An A-OK pat on his back told him they were good to go. 

As soon as the light turned green, Winter was gone.

Brock rolled his eyes, took a deep breath, and gave the order. He snapped his goggles over his eyes and then he was airborne. The wind whistled past his ears with a roar. He’d done this so many that he barely felt any rush anymore. His heartbeat remained steady as he pulled his shoot and glided gently to the ground. Within moments the rest of STRIKE had touched down and were discarding their shoots as they fell into position behind Brock. A quick headcount yielded the whole team and Brock turned to see Winter standing motionless by the edge of the clearing, Colt M4A1 held in a relaxed grip. His goggles were on, face completely obscured.

“We good?” Brock said softly as he stole up behind the man, his own rifle tucked easily against his shoulder. A curt nod was all the reply he got before Winter began striding into the forest. Brock sighed. He signalled to STRIKE before lifting his own mask up over his nose and followed the Soldier.

 

 

“Fuck!” Brock spat as he tumbled to the ground, blood and pain exploding from his right leg. He twisted in mid air, just barely avoiding his face being smashed into the unforgiving dirt.

_“Just get me in and stay out of my way.”_

Well, that part had gone off without a hitch. They’d gotten Winter to the target’s remote safe house without any hassle. That's when the trouble started. They'd known there would be security. They had been prepared for that but they hadn’t been prepared of the caliber of bodyguards the foreign delegate had managed to wrangle. Brock had called STRIKE back as soon as he recognized the SHIELD agent bleeding out in front of his boots. They couldn’t risk any one of them getting captured or killed, having their identity exposed. Winter would just have to take care of himself and met they back at the rendezvous.   

Brock grunted as he rolled himself over, breathing harshly through his nose. “Jesus fuck!” he gasped, staring down in shock at the slender _arrow_ that protruded from just above his right kneecap. The sharp point shone in the dim morning light, the delicate fletchings brushing against his other leg. Their situation just went from bad to worse if this particular agent was on sight.

“Bones?” Rollins voice growled over the comms, voice laced with worry as he used the man’s HYDRA callsign. “Still breathin’,” Brock muttered as his hands hovered nervously over his wounded leg. His brain hadn’t yet caught up with his situation, shock and blood loss scrambling his reaction time. He had a fucking arrow through his knee.

“What's your location?” Rollins snapped in his ear, shaking Brock loose from the shocked stupor he’d fallen into. “Northeast of the house, twelve klicks along the ravine,” he gasped as his hands scrabbled in his tac vest for a pressure bandage. “We’ve got a bigger problem. Apparently the circus is in town,” he spat sarcastically. He ignored the sharp curse Rollins snapped, focusing on his injury.

He tore the bandage’s package open with his teeth, spitting pieces of plastic as he inspected the damage. He'd been lucky. An inch or two lower and he would have been royally screwed. As it was, the projectile had missed the actual joint, burrowing through the thick muscle of his thigh just above it.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he looked closer. Maybe not so lucky. The arrow head was barbed, so there’d be no pulling it out. The shaft itself was some sort of metal alloy, light enough to allow for proper flight but sturdy enough that snapping it was out of the question. Cutting it would take too long. 

Movement flashed in his peripheral and Brock jerked back on instinct. The air whistled past him as another arrow sliced past inches from his face. His eyes snapped up the rocky outcropping on his left to see a shadowy figure standing tall, the sharp outline of a bow creating a distinct silhouette against the brightening horizon. 

Brock didn’t hesitate and threw himself over the edge of the ravine.

He tumbled down the steep embankment, struggling to protect his leg as well as his head and vital organs. Branches and brambles tore at his clothes, ripping the goggles clean off his face. Sharp rocks stabbed into his ribs and back with every turn, the arrow snagging painfully on branches and vines. A sharp drop-off dumped Brock suddenly into free fall. The ground loomed before him and then everything slammed to black.

 

 

Brock woke up flat on his back on a rocky riverbank, legs trailing in the icy glacier-fed river. He was soaked from head to toe and who knows how far downstream. With consciousness came a deep throbbing pain over every inch of his body.

He choked and coughed, expelling river water. He sucked air into his sore lungs, breath hitching as something pinched sharply in his side. That meant broken ribs. He clearly had a concussion, if the dull aching pain in his head and fuzzy vision was any indicator. He reached a hand up to his temple, his glove coming away sticky and red. Fuck.

Better this than being a human shish kabob, he supposed. Well, at least more of one that he already was. That reminded him that he should probably check to see if the arrow was still in his leg. Or if he still had legs period. He couldn't really feel them at the moment. He blinked. He couldn't feel his legs. Panic flared through his chest, hot and terrifying.

A breath later and his eyes welled in relief as he was able to weakly move his feet, hearing them splash in the alpine water. The cold had just numbed them. That in itself was dangerous. Biting back a cry, Brock pushed himself into some semblance of a sitting position. The movement caused more pain to flare hot in his head and chest, and crackling along his right shoulder. He'd definitely dislocated it.

 _That's nice,_ his addled brain thought.

He glanced down, seeing the steady red stain that bloomed in the water around his knee, trickling away in wisps. The arrow was still imbedded in his leg, having created a larger wound from all the abuse it had taken during his fall. He was lucky it hadn't nicked anything vital but blood loss was going to become a problem soon.

A rustling noise from further up the river reached his ears, cutting through the ringing that had been drowning out everything else. Brock’s head snapped around, eyes searching the dim woods frantically. The morning sun struggled to reach the bottom of the valley, throwing long and distracting shadows. His hand went to his hip, finding nothing but an empty holster. _Fuck_.

A dark figure detached from the shadows, dropping down onto the rocky riverbed with a soft crunch. Brock’s froze, hoping that the dim light and his dark clothes would be enough to hide him. The figure paused before turning and heading straight for him. Brock’s heart was in his throat, pounding in his ears by the time he recognized the shadowing silhouette.

“Fucking hell,” he murmured, releasing the tactical knife that had been the only weapon to survive the fall. Winter said nothing, eyes sharp over the edge of his mask.

Hands latched onto his jacket from behind and Brock managed not to whimper like a child as Winter dragged him the rest of the way out of the river. Hands methodically searched through the pockets of his tac vest, pulling items out every once in a while. A sharp prick against the side of his leg and the cool rush that followed told him Winter had at least found the morphine.

He grunted at the sharp pain that ricocheted up his thigh as Winter snapped the arrow neatly in two with his metal hand. Fingers probed and explored around the wound, causing Brock to blanche three shades lighter. _“Don’t scream,”_ muttered in Russian was the only warning he had before the projectile was swiftly yanked from his leg.

A cry tore from Brock’s throat before he could stop it and a gloved hand clamped down across his mouth to stifle it. Brock blinked, finding Winter’s face inches from his. His cold gaze locked with Brock’s, glaring warningly. Brock held his breath.

Silence echoed through the woods. After a long moment, Winter sat up and moved his attention back to Brock’s leg. He bound it swiftly, using two pressure bandages to create a sort of brace to help stabilize the joint while also applying pressure to the wound itself. He gave Brock a quick once-over, hands running swiftly up his legs and over his hips, pausing at Brock's sharp intake of breath as his hands ghosted over broken ribs.

He then pointed mutely to Brock’s shoulder, a question in his eyes. Brock grimaced, feeling the muscles spasm as they tried to force the joint back into place. It would be a bitch to put back in, even with the morphine, but it’d be worse to have to climb out of this damn ravine with a dislocated shoulder. “Just get it over with,” Brock muttered, steeling himself.

One hand braced against the top of Brock's shoulder as the metal one wrapped around his wrist. A sharp twist, a hard pull, and the joint slipped back in with a hollow pop. Brock let out a slow hissing breath, tasting iron. He’d bit into his cheek in an effort to not cry out. He yanked down his mask, struggling to get enough air through the damn thing.

“Right,” he gasped. “Mission report.” Winter just stared at him, crouched on one knee by his side. _“Mission report,”_ he repeated, this time in Russian. “Target eliminated,” Winter replied softly in English. Brock blinked but didn’t comment on the confusing exchanged. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Good. That’s good.” He was starting to feel a little lightheaded. “Did anyone see you?”

“No one living,” came the morbid reply.

“Jesus,” Brock muttered. “And the archer?” He huffed a relieved breath when the man shook his head, clearly puzzled. So Barton hadn’t crossed paths with the Soldier. Better for everyone, particularly Barton. “Alright. Help me up,” Brock ordered. “We need to get to the evac point.” Strong hands grasped his elbows and hauled him upright. They held him steady until his legs were underneath him. As soon as they let go, Brock’s vision spun. His knee buckled and he found himself slamming into a hard muscled chest. Arms wrapped around his waist, keeping him from face planting back into the river.

“Take it easy there, dollface.”

Brock froze. That had been Winter’s voice but not Winter’s voice. The tone was all wrong, vowels drawling in the familiar accent from Brock's hometown. He jerked back, staring confusingly up into expressionless eyes. “What?” he slurred, blinking owlishly up at the younger man. Winter just stared back, like he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. “We need to move,” he said, voice toneless and cold like always. In the next breath Brock found hitself with his good arm slung over the Soldier’s shoulders, an arm wrapped around his middle, and no spare energy to focus on the strange new development in the Asset's personality.

 

  
Rollins was at his side the second their boots hit the ramp, taking Brock from Winter’s arms and hustling him into the plane. "What happened?" he snapped worriedly as the medic began cutting away his pant leg. "I got shot with a fucking arrow!" Brock snarled, grumpy as the adrenaline wore off and the pain came back. "A _what?"_ Rollins said, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. "You heard me," Brock grumbled, wincing as additional bandages were wrapped around his knee. "Right, Barton. And then what, you fell off a cliff?" Rollins exclaimed incredulously, eyes roving over the rest of his Commander's injuries. "As a matter of fact," the older man muttered as the medic carefully maneuvered him out of his jacket. 

"Jesus Christ," Rollins snorted as a massive smirk split across his face. "Not another fucking word," Brock growled waspishly, pointing a stern finger at his second as his injured shoulder was strapped into a sling. Rollins just raised his arms in mock surrender, eyes twinkling. “Casualties?” Brock asked tersely, eager to change the subject as the medic hooked him up to an IV drip. “None of ours,” Rollins said, grabbing at the overhead netting for balance as the plane roared into the sky. “All the kids made it back in one piece, unidentified. You’re the only one who decided to cash in some vacation days.” 

"Ha ha," Brock muttered, glaring sternly up at the younger man. Rollins didn't take any notice. “The target?” he asked softly, eyes flicking briefly down the plane. “Eliminated,” Brock replied quietly, following Rollins’ glance to where Winter had taken up his exact same position as on the flight over. He waited until the medic stopped fussing and moved away before asking a favour.

“Take care of him?” he asked softly, making sure his words weren’t heard by anyone else. Rollins hesitated, eyes calculating as he looked down at Brock but in the end, he nodded. Besides Brock, Rollins was the only other field agent who could interact directly with the Soldier, the only other person Winter would allow near him in the field.

Brock watched carefully as Rollins made his way over to Winter, clearly staying in the man’s sight lines. He crouched down in front of the younger man, murmuring softly. Winter finally nodded, reaching up and pulling the mask away from his face. Rollins took it, continuing to murmur soothing things as he slowly divested the man of his massive arsenal.

His eyes were beginning to grow heavy as Rollins returned to Winter with one of those runny protein shakes his prep team supplied them for longer missions. “Let’s get this leg elevated, shall we?” the medic said, interrupting Brock's silent vigil as he helped him to lie down across the seats. His leg was carefully propped up and a scratchy blanket was tucked around him to help combat the shock. A cannula was threaded into his nose, supplying him with cool oxygen. The medic strapped him into the seat in case of any turbulence, giving him one last order to get some rest before moving off.

Brock’s eyes were feeling heavy but he fought to keep them open long enough to watch Winter drink at least half of the protein drink. Brock always thought the techs underfed the kid. As if feeling Brock’s watchful gaze, Winter’s eyes snapped up to meet his. Something flickered there, that same look the man had had earlier. The ghost of a smile. Brock just stared. That coupled with what he'd heard the man say earlier by the river was beginning to paint a picture. Of what, he wasn't sure and definitely didn't have the energy to figure it out right now.

At that moment, Rollins came back and handed Winter a bottle of water. Without those icy eyes staring into his to focus on, Brock couldn’t resist the gentle pull of the drugs circulating his system. His eyes fluttered closed and he slide into a dreamless sleep, not waking until the wheels hit the tarmac back in DC.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the training one first but then had this other idea pop into my head. I loved the second one way more but didn't want to delete the first one so you get two stories for the price of one! Bonus! xx


	3. Plain

“What is this?” Brock heard Bucky say in confusion. He glanced up from his computer to where James was standing by the fridge. He fought back a smile, feeling a warm rush fill his chest at the sight. These days the former HYDRA Asset was about ninety-percent self sufficient.

It had been a huge risk smuggling Bucky out days before the former Nazi organization’s end game and now they were being hunted by practically the entire world. They had a list of crimes as long as their arms and treason was just the start. It hadn’t taken long for Bucky to remember he was in fact Bucky but he’d refused to seek out Rogers, even at Brock’s insistence. Not until he’d sorted out his jumbled memories.

Brock hadn’t really had a plan, outside of getting them both out. The feelings that had grown between them in the past year and a half on the run had been a surprise to both of them but not an unwelcome one. Now, in this small studio apartment in Bucharest where they’d been for the past three months, things were finally beginning to feel almost normal.

He met Bucky’s questioning gaze where he stood with one hand on the fridge door and a round container in the other. “Yogurt,” Brock said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world because it was. “I know how to fucking read,” James retorted with a sour look. “I mean what _is_ it?”

The former STRIKE Commander felt his mouth fall open and didn’t bother to try and close it. “You don’t know what yogurt is?” he asked incredulously. Bucky scowled. “I wouldn’t be asking if I did, now would I?” he snapped, shifting his weight.

Brock bit back a sharp retort. It was moments like this that the similarities between the two men clashed. Both had a temper that was quick to flare. Both were overly sarcastic, a snarky sense of humour that flared whenever embarrassed or challenged.

When Bucky didn’t remember something, or didn’t know what something was because of the seventy odd years he’d been kept as a brainwashed assassin, he got defensive. If Brock had been more on the ball, he would have known that Bucky was probably feeling embarrassed at himself already for having to ask what yogurt.

“It’s like made from fermented milk,” Brock explained patiently, struggling to find an adequate description. Based on Bucky’s face, he wasn’t doing a good job. “It’s good,” Brock insisted. “If you say so,” Bucky said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “Just try it,” the older man huffed as he rolled his eyes.

The former assassin popped the lid with the same trepidation Brock had seen in bomb disposal agents. Bucky took a cautious sniff, before scooping out a finger full. Brock couldn’t hold back a snort at the affronted look on Bucky’s face, at the way his nose wrinkled in contempt. “That’s disgusting,” he said, snapping the lid back on the container. “Well, no wonder,” Brock said, reaching across the counter to snag the container. “This is plain. I used it in the crab cakes on Wednesday.”

“There are flavours?” Bucky said, his brow crinkling.

In answer, Brock crossed to the fridge and dug out a single serving of the raspberry yogurt. “Here, try this,” he said, ripping the lid off and snatching a spoon from the drying rack. Bucky made a face but allowed Brock to feed him the yogurt nonetheless. He raised his eyebrows at the younger man, waiting expectantly.

“That’s not hideous,” Bucky said dismissively but Brock smirked as the spoon and yogurt were both snatched from his hands. Brock chuckled as he sat back down at the counter, making the mental note to pick up more raspberry yogurt the next time he was out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was silly. This was so silly. I had the hardest time coming up with anything for the prompt. The next chapter is a longer story, I promise!!


	4. Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLOSURE: BRIEF MENTION OF ATTEMPTED SEXUAL ASSAULT

“You don’t understand,” Bucky bit out through gritted teeth as he stared through the window of the hospital room to the dark haired man lying painfully still in a hospital bed. It had been over two months since the fall of the Triskelion, since Bucky had sat soaking wet and shivering on the banks of the Potomac waiting for the man he had just tried to kill to wake up.

In that time, Bucky’s recovery had been rocky. His memories had come back in force but it was all a confusing jumble. The shit they’d shoved in his head hovered like a black cloud, lurking and waiting to take back control.

It had been five days since Bucky had walked into the tower to find Steve and a few of the others going over lists of known HYDRA agents who were currently in custody. Bucky’s eyes had slid over the dozens of profiles before latching on one particular face. He learned later that he went ridged all over before collapsing. “It looked like you were having a seizure,” Steve had told him, lips tight and eyes worried.

All Bucky remembered was the overwhelming and painful rush of memories that tumbled over one another, all centred around the dark haired man. As soon as he had been medically cleared, he was on his way to Washington. He didn’t even tell Steve, leaving him to catch up two days later. Probably wasn’t his best idea.

“Then explain it to me,” Steve said, clearly getting exasperated. “Because you’re right, I don’t understand.” Bucky took a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest as he tried to figure out where to start. “Just come back to New York,” Steve was saying. “Buck, this isn’t helpful—,”

“I’m not leaving,” Bucky interrupted stiffly. He felt more than heard Steve sigh. “He’s in a coma. There’s nothing you can d—,”

 _“You don’t understand,”_ Bucky growled, louder and harsher than he had intended as he ground the palms of his hands against his eyes. An orderly gave them a scathing look as he past them in the hall but Bucky didn’t pay much attention. He crossed his arms over his chest to hid his hands that had started to shake. Or one had started to shake.

The metal one just felt cold, even through his jacket.

“Then please explain it to me,” Steve snapped, that famous temper flaring. “Please explain why you’ve been by the bedside of the HYDRA agent who helped torture and brainwash you, who tried to kill me more than once, like a lovesick puppy for the past three days.” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing down the hot flash of his own anger. He knew Steve would instantly feel guilty for snapping and would promptly apologize.

“I’m sorry.”

Right on cue.

“I’m listening, I swear.”

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, watching as a nurse checked over the unconscious man on the other side of the window. “I need coffee,” he said suddenly. “Real coffee, not the tar they serve downstairs.” He could feel Steve looking at him, calculating. “Okay,” the blonde said softly. “I think there’s a cart across the street.”

Twenty minutes later, they sat side by side in the hospital hallway, coffee cups in hand. Bucky wasn’t sure where to start, wasn’t sure if he could make Steve see when his own memories and feelings were a confusing jumble. Steve, bless him, said nothing and just let him wrestle with himself. He finally heaved a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face, eyes stinging.

It was painful seeing the man he remembered as so alive and vibrant lying so pale and still. The left side of Rumlow’s face was covered in angry red burns. White bandages wrapped around both arms and hands. One leg was in traction, pins drilled into flesh to keep it immobile. He had a tube down his throat, a machine breathing for him, and he hadn’t woken up since the last round of surgery to repair a collapsed lung. That was two weeks ago.

It was going to be a chore to convince Steve to see the man as anything other than the enemy. Part of the problem was that Bucky couldn’t defend the man’s actions. Rumlow was absolutely no saint. He had a downright vicious side to him. He enjoyed the rush of endorphins that came with a fight far too much and he chased that high far too often. He didn’t feel guilty for the horrific things he’d done, or if he did he never showed it. He didn’t care if he helped burn the world to the ground so long as the paycheque cleared. The man was a survivor through and through and and cared for very little but himself.

And yet, he had cared about Bucky.

“He gave me chocolate once,” Bucky said finally, voice muffled slightly by his hands. “Not this plastic Kinder shit they sell these days. Real, dark chocolate. Had me puking up on his boots an hour later.” The memory was funny now, at the time he remembered being terrified. Rumlow hadn’t even been mad though. He’d just grimaced and passed over a water bottle for Bucky to rinse out his mouth.

“He washed my hair,” he said, the memory blooming in his minds eye as if it happened yesterday. He huffed a breath at the startled look Steve threw at his way. “Things got a little messy on a op,” Bucky explained wryly. “Had blood matted in my hair. Techs were just gonna throw me back on ice but he…,” Bucky swallowed thickly, feelings echoing back along with the memory. “He wouldn’t let them.”

At that point he had been touch starved for nearly sixty-five years, outside of the clinical ministrations from his prep team. He remembered how gentle the man’s hands had been as he massaged out the knots with generous amounts of shampoo, remembered Rumlow stalling until his hair was mostly dry so it wouldn’t freeze too much.

“He was always there when they pulled me out of cryo,” he continued. “Would get me armed and prepped himself.” Bucky swallowed the rest of the story, his jaw muscles flexing. There was more to the story but that wasn’t something he wanted Steve to know.

He was always disorientated and weak for the first hour or so after being defrosted. They’d just dumped him in a holding cell and wait until his muscles stopped trembling and his brain sorted itself out. Then his mission prep team would come get him suited up. No problem. Never a problem. Then they assigned him a new prep team. Bucky could still remember the way the mag-cuffs bit into his wrists, clamped down too tight. He remembered the slimy way the two men had leered at him, their lips moving and him unable to understand what they were saying, his mind still foggy and jumbled.

 

_In the haze of post thaw, he didn’t understand what was happening until it was too late._

_Until there was an arm around his throat and hands around his ankles and he couldn’t breath. He thrashed but his hands were trapped and his muscles weren’t yet cooperating. His vision began to darken around the edges as the chokehold tightened. He felt the hands on his ankles move up to his hips, to the waistband of his pants._

_Then the hands were gone and he could breathe again. He rasped in deep breaths, blinking rapidly to clear his vision as he scrambled away until his back hit the far wall of the containment cell. The tech’s hit the floor a breath later, one after the other with hollow thumps. Bucky froze, staring up at the two new arrivals standing over the unconscious men._

_“Take care of it,” the shorter one growled softly._

_The other man, tall and imposing with slicked back hair and a wicked facial scar, nodded as his eyes flashed dangerously. He bent down and grabbed a wrist of each of the unconscious techs. As he dragged them out, they left behind faint smudges of red in their wake._

_“You okay kid?” the remaining man asked gruffly, starting to step towards him. Bucky flinched at the sudden movement, scrambling up into a defensive position. The plates in his metal arm shifted ominously. They gotten a jump on him once. He wouldn’t let it happen again. “Whoah, easy,” the man soothed, low and rasping as he held out his hands out to show the key to the cuffs. “I’m just going to unlock the cuffs, okay?” he said gently._

_Bucky hesitated, seizing the man up. Shorter than him, the man was probably in his early thirties. Dark hair shaved short on the sides and spiky on top. Dark hazel eyes, strong jaw, well-muscled body. The man was clearly military but he held himself in a way that soldiers just didn’t when around the Fist of HYDRA. He was relaxed. The tension wasn’t there, that slight edge of fear not present._

_The man held his suspicious gaze steadily and without flinching. Finally Bucky nodded stiffly, holding his wrists out. The second the heavy cuffs dropped to the floor, he had the stranger slammed up against the wall. Metal fingers flexed around the man’s fragile throat threateningly. The man’s eyes widened, hands latching around Bucky’s wrist as his gasped for air._

_Footsteps pounded behind them and Bucky spun them around, pulling the shorter man into a headlock in front of him. His back scrapped against the wall and it took all his concentration not to let his legs buckle underneath him. Six armed men pounded into the cell, tasers and bamsticks crackling. A white-coat followed behind them, filling a large syringe with a milky liquid. Bucky’s arm tightened on reflex._

_“Stand down,” the man in his arms choked out._

_The guards froze, glancing nervously at each other. Bucky froze too, releasing about half an inch of pressure from the man’s larynx in surprise. “I said stand the fuck down!” the man barked. This time the men reluctantly lowered their weapons. “Now fuck off!” The techs exchanged an unsure look but slowly backed off. “See, just the two of us now,” the man was saying. “How about we take it down a notch, yah?” Bucky hesitated, the plates in his arm shifting in case this was a trick. “Easy, big guy,” he soothed, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender._

_Bucky let him go, shoving him away roughly. He watched the man give a rasping cough, noticing approvingly that he kept Bucky always in his peripheral vision. So he wasn’t a complete idiot. “Relax, kid,” the man rasped, dropping down onto one of the benches that jutted out of the wall. “I’m not gonna hurt yah.” Bucky narrowed his eyes. His head was clear now, control over his body fast returning. “Yeah,” the man chuckled, not even hesitating to look Bucky in the eye. “Not like I could if I wanted to, right?”_

_The man’s eyes clouded over and grew hard as he gave Bucky a visual once-over. “You hurt?” he asked. Bucky mutely shook his head. “Good, that’s good,” the man muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “My Second is taking care of it,” he continued, eyes flicking towards the blood that was smeared along the floor. Bucky swallowed, feeling his muscles tense all over in an unconscious reaction. “And I promise you,” the man said fiercely, eyes heated and angry. “Once he’s finished, no ones gonna be able to put them back together.”_

_The strange man kept staring at him, as it waiting for something. Bucky didn’t know what he wanted so he settled for a stiff nod. It seemed to be enough and the older man visibly relaxed._

_“Brock Rumlow,” he said, indicating himself. “I’ve been assigned as your new handler.”_

 

“Bucky?”

He jumped, realizing that he’d fallen into a silent stupor for far too long. “He gave me a nickname,” he said softly. He could remember the way the man’s eyes had sparkled with mischief the day he had come up with it. “Refused to call me Soldier. Got disciplined too many times to count for it but that never stopped him. Higher ups finally gave in when it didn’t mess with the programming because the ops got cleaner. Less collateral damage.” Bucky took a pause, took a deep breath before diving into the deep end.

“He talked to me like a person, not a weapon” he continued, feeling Steve’s eyes boring holes into him. “Always asked me to weigh in on ops. Didn’t just give me orders and expect me not to get killed. He was the only one who ever did that.” He turned to look at the blonde man beside him, meeting his eyes steadily.

“He’s killed a lot of people, Buck,” Steve said quietly, looking pained.

“So have I,” Bucky said without hesitation.

Steve flinched, glancing away. "That's different," he said and Bucky didn't have the energy to correct him again. The man kept trying to separate James Barnes from the things the Soldier had done. While Bucky knew he’d not been in control, he couldn’t compartmentalize his actions like that. Not when he remembered everything. “I’m not saying he’s a good man,” he continued softly. “He probably isn’t but he was my handler for almost ten years. He was always there.” Bucky swallowed thickly, feeling his throat tighten and his eyes prickle.

The tension between the two men was almost palatable. It lay thick in the air like syrup. For once, Bucky didn’t have a read on Steve. The man’s face was carefully blank, jaw muscles tense and eyes hard. His hands were clenched against his thighs, his entire body rigid. Bucky rose on stiff legs, really hoping he hadn’t ruined everything between them, and stalked back into Rumlow’s hospital room.

It was empty, the time in-between the nurse’s check ups. Rumlow lay pale and still, small-looking in the swath of white hospital linen. Bucky had always hated hospitals. The smell of bleach burned his nose and all the white made him fidgety. He stepped up beside the bed, taking a shallow breath. He reached out a tentative hand, brushing lightly across the back of bandaged fingers.

Rumlow’s eyes snapped open.

“Easy, easy,” he soothed, pressing a hand to Rumlow’s shoulder as the man convulsed, choking on the tube. “Little help in here?” he bellowed, grabbing the older man’s hands to keep him from yanking out the intubation himself. The nurses beat Steve by a half a heartbeat. “Calm down, Agent,” the brisk blonde nurse with the nose ring said, placing a firm hand on Rumlow’s chest. The man’s eyes snapped to her as he choked, eyes wide and panicky. “I know it’s uncomfortable but just let it breath for you,” she said soothingly as the doctor came up behind her.

At that moment one of the other nurses pushed Bucky and Steve out with a gentle scolding. “It’s long past visiting hours,” he said sternly. “You can come back tomorrow.” Only Steve’s restraining hand on his arm stopped Bucky from snapping something harsh. “There’s nothing you can do tonight,” Steve said with a sigh. “Come on, let’s go back to the apartment.” Bucky hesitated, reluctant to leave but in the end, he let Steve guide him out.

 

He was back at the hospital as soon as visiting hours started, having had a sleep plagued with disturbing memories and feeling out of place in Steve’s old Brooklyn apartment. Too many things in Brooklyn were different, just enough the same to make it uncomfortable. He’d tried to sneak out without waking Steve but that didn’t work and the blonde man was currently a pace behind him as they strode through the halls. They hadn’t spoken save for a few stilted words over the dinner Steve made and Bucky left mostly untouched.

They approached Rumlow’s room, finding a tweedy agent in a suit chewing out the same blonde nurse. “The man has third degree burns over forty percent of his body,” she sighed, looking increasingly frazzled. “I can’t put cuffs on him, even padded ones. The skin is too fragile.” This was apparently an unsatisfactory answer and the agent puffed up like an irate parrot and started dressing her down.

“You think a man who has pins holding his femur together is really going to walk out through the front door?” Steve said with raised eyebrows, waving the nurse off. The agent paled a few shades upon turning to find Captain America staring sternly down at him. The nurse threw Steve a grateful look before sneaking away as the agent stammered something that might have been English, cleared his throat, and tried again.

Bucky stopped listening, using the distraction to slip into Rumlow’s room. The man looked better without the tube tied down his throat. He sat in the only chair in the room, an uncomfortable plastic one pushed up against the far wall, and settled in to wait. He didn’t have to wait long.

After a few long minutes, Rumlow’s body went rigid all over and his eyes snapped open with a sharp intake of breath. Bucky watched the man forcibly relax with a grimace, air hissing through his teeth. Burns hurt like a bitch. Bucky could only imagine the pain he was in.

The man's eyes suddenly snapped to his and Bucky’s cheek twitched at the flash of surprise and fear that flickered in his former handler’s dark eyes. He'd never looked at him in fear before, not even when Bucky ripped a target’s throat out with his bare hands in front of him. It’s what had set him apart from all of the Soldier’s other handlers. It hurt to see it now, even if Rumlow covered it a heartbeat later.

“Fucking creepy, lurking in the corner like that,” the man muttered, voice rough and harsh from the intubation tube and months of disuse. His eyes flicked to the door and then back to Bucky. “So, this is it then,” his former handler said with a sigh. Bucky narrowed his eyes, not understanding. “It’s okay,” Rumlow murmured, forcing a smile past tight lips. “Just do it quick, the morphine’s starting to wear off.”

Bucky blinked.

Oh.

He grabbed the chair, dragging it across the floor with a hideous scraping noise till he sat right next to the bed. Rumlow took a breath, eyes carefully blank and a little resigned. “I’m not here to kill you,” he said softly, not taking his eyes from the injured man’s. Rumlow blinked, shifting uneasily. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Your new handler know you’ve taken a little field trip?”

“No handlers,” Bucky replied. “Not anymore.”

Rumlow stared at him calculatingly before rasping a sharp laugh. “Son of a bitch,” he chuckled. “You went with Rogers?” Bucky’s assertive nod made him laugh more. “I told him,” the older man crowed. “I fucking told Pierce not to send you after him. That it was a stupid idea but he wouldn’t listen.” The laugh turned into a hacking cough that hurt Bucky’s chest just to hear. He waited until the man was breathing easy before saying “Pierce is dead.”

“Good,” Rumlow said without hesitation.

Silence echoed in the room. After a while, Rumlow took a breath. “You know what happened to Rollins?” he asked stiffly, eyes wary like he was afraid of the answer. A face materialized in Bucky’s mind, a tall scarred man with a gruff exterior and surprisingly gentle hands. He’d been the one to patch Bucky up when he got a concussion on a mission in Nepal. He shook his head. The older man's lips twisted bitterly. “He was with the Council,” he said softly, eyes growing sad. “Bastard’s got a hard head but even he can’t survive a building falling on it.”

“You did,” Bucky pointed out. Rumlow huffed a wry chuckle. “Yeah, barely,” he muttered darkly. Bucky didn’t know what to say to that. Rumlow sighed, his eyes looking tired in a way Bucky only remembered seeing once before. It had just been two months ago, hours before the final assault on the Triskelion.

 

_“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Rumlow grumbled under his breath as he handed over knives for Bucky to strap to various parts of his body. “Forget it,” he said dismissively at the confused tilt of Bucky’s head._

_“Just forget it.”_

 

“Why’re you here, Winter?” Rumlow asked softly, pulling Bucky back to the present.

He was silent for a long moment, resisting the urge to fiddle with the loose thread on his sleeve. It was harder than he’d expected to hear his old nickname. He could feel Rumlow’s eyes on him, waiting for an answer. “I remember,” he said finally. “Remember what?” his old handler sighed. Bucky swallowed thickly. “Everything,” he stated, staring clearly across to the other man.

Bright blue meeting dark hazel.

Rumlow looked away first. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “For what?” Bucky snapped, harsher than he had meant. “Everything,” was the parroted reply, a dry smirk flickering and failing on the man’s lips. “Why?” he asked, honestly curious. He wanted to know, needed to know. Rumlow licked his lips nervously.

“Just….everything,” Rumlow said, eyes sad.

“Not good enough,” Bucky stated, not satisfied with the man’s answer. To his shame, he felt his eyes burn as his vision began to blur. He stared down at the floor, counting the hairline cracks in the tiles. “I don’t know what you want me to say, kid,” he heard Rumlow murmur softly. “Was fucked up what you went through but there wasn’t anything I could do.”

Bucky bit back a retort. It would have sounded childish. Rumlow seemed to read it on his face anyways. “No use ending up dead in a ditch and you just bounced to the next jarhead who wouldn’t know how to handle you properly,” he said and Bucky could tell that he meant it. In the man's mind, he’d done everything he could. “Handle me,” he sneered bitterly. Rumlow just snorted. “Yeah, handle. And believe me, you were a handful. Still got the scars from some of your temper tantrums.” Bucky could detect the gentle teasing tone in the man’s voice but it did nothing to ease the tightness building in his throat.

“Winter, look at me.”

The voice was quiet but the tone of voice was something Bucky had gotten used to over the past ten years. It was stern, brokering no discussion or hesitation. Yet he did hesitate, continuing to stubbornly stare at the ground. A hand cupped against the side of his face, fingers curling around the back of his neck. It was another thing Bucky was familiar with. He immediately felt calmer, grounded and centred. “Look at me,” the voice rumbled and this time Bucky couldn’t ignore it. His gaze flicked up, meeting eyes that were somehow gentle and stern at the same time.

“You listen to me,” he was told sternly. “None of it was your fault. None of it.” Bucky opened his mouth to argue, frustrated that it was the same argument he’d had with Steve, but the fingers around his neck flexed warningly and he snapped it shut again. “So stop blaming yourself,” Rumlow continued firmly. “You don’t deserve it.”

Bucky swallowed thickly. He felt something well up and spill out of his eye. A gauzy thumb brushed against his cheek. “Here now, none of that,” Rumlow murmured, clumsy fingers brushing the long hair back from Bucky’s face. “You need a haircut,” he chuckled, yanking gently on an overgrown lock. “You always did look like a fuckin’ hippy.” Bucky huffed a watery chuckle, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You’re doing just fine, Winter,” Brock murmured affectionately, easing himself back against the pillows.

“Bucky,” he replied softly

“What was that?” the injured man asked. “My name,” he said clearly, folding his fingers under his chin. “It’s Bucky.” Rumlow’s eyebrows raised. “Okay,” he said slowly. “What?” Bucky said sharply, eyes narrowing at the man’s tone. “No, nothing,” Rumlow said innocently, even as his eyes sparkled. “Nothing at all. Bucky it is.” There was a short silence before the man clearly couldn’t take it anymore. “Bucky? I mean, come on. _Bucky?_ Really? That’s the best you could do?”

“Shut up,” Bucky said with a choked chuckle. Rumlow just smirked, the lopsided tilt to his lips comfortingly familiar. “It’s good to see you like this, kid,” he said genuinely. “I’m glad you got out.” Bucky swallowed thickly, flexing his knuckles and watching how the plates shifted along his metal fingers.

“What happens to you now?” he asked quietly, afraid of the answer. The injured man huffed a humourless laugh. “Oh, there’ll be a trial I’m sure,” he said with a sigh. “It’ll be prison if I’m lucky, the Raft if I’m not.” Bucky’s jaw muscles twitched as he ground his teeth together. “You’ll be fine,” Rumlow was saying. “Rogers’ll have your back. You don’t need me anymore.”

“But what if I do?” Bucky felt the words slip past his teeth before he could stop them, panic making his chest tighten. He felt Rumlow pause, eyes widening slightly. “What if…,” he paused, licking his lips nervously. “I don’t know how—I just—I can’t—.” There was a roaring noise growing louder in his ears and his breath caught in his chest.

He was spinning out and didn’t know how to stop it.

Slowly, a voice broke through the buzzing white noise, low and soothing. A hand was gripping his neck, the touch grounding and firm. He blinked tears from his eyes, Rumlow’s blurry face swimming into view. He was staring sternly at something over Bucky’s head even as his lips spoke a soothing mantra. He tried to turn, to see what had the other man’s rapt attention but a firm grip on the back of his neck stopped him. “Eyes on me,” Rumlow said, dark gaze flicking down to meet Bucky’s.

“Eyes on me, there you go. Just breathe. Breathe with me, okay?”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Bucky’s breath evened and stopped catching in his throat. This time when he pulled against Rumlow’s grip, the man let him go. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, taking a shaky breath. “You look like shit, kid,” the other man murmured roughly. “You sleeping enough?” Bucky just shrugged, looking down to the floor. “Take that as a no,” the other man sighed. Bucky just shrugged again. “Nightmares?” he was asked insightfully. Another shrug. “Yah, they can be a bitch. Any sleep walking? Waking up not knowing where you are?”

“Almost snapped Steve’s neck when he tried to wake me up once,” Bucky said harshly, guilt threatening to choke the words off in his throat. “I nearly stabbed Rollins through the chest on the plane home once. It happens,” he heard the man say. Bucky just shook his head, cupping his hands around his chin, fingers curling over his nose. “Why don’t you take a nap?” Bucky jerked his head up, eyes wide in surprise. The other man tossed his head towards the empty hospital bed a few feet over. “Go on,” he prompted as Bucky stared, fingers hovering comically inches from his face.

“I’ll watch your back.”

Bucky almost said that if it came to a fight, Rumlow wouldn't be able to do jack but he supposed they were safe enough with Steve sitting right outside. He hesitated, looking to Rumlow again for what exactly he wasn’t sure. The older man nodded encouragingly and Bucky rose stiffly to his feet. He paused in front of the other bed, then made up his mind. Rumlow didn’t say anything as Bucky shoved the bed up against the wall. He lay down with his back pressed up against it, checking to make sure he had a clear view of the door.

He was asleep so fast it felt like he just blinked and forgot to reopen his eyes.

 

  
He crawled back into consciousness slowly.

It was a change from his normal way of waking up; in a cold sweat with something sharp clutched in his hand. His eyes felt gritty and his mouth was dry but he felt better. He blinked, blurry eyes focusing on the tall broad man standing over Rumlow. A tall broad and blonde man. Bucky shut his eyes quickly, relaxing his body and his breathing as he listened to the soft murmuring a few feet away. There was a long pause and Bucky wondered if he’d been caught out but then Steve started speaking.

“You’re good with him,” Steve said, voice tight and sounding more than a little reluctant.

“Had to be,” replied a gruff voice that could only belong to Rumlow. “Saw the way his previous handler dealt with him. The tech teams, Pierce, they all of them treated him the same, like a fucking weapon.”

“It’s more than that,” Steve interrupted. There was a pause and Bucky got the distinct feeling of eyes watching him. There was a pause. The soft rustle of blankets. Even breathing. Soft beeping coming from the machines. “That panic attack,” he heard the man say.

Bucky didn’t let his breath change but he felt his heart flutter in his chest and idly wondered if Steve could hear his heartbeat from this distance. “He doesn’t let me touch him when he’s like that,” Steve continued. “The best I can do is just be there and wait for him to pull himself out of the spiral.” The guilt in the man’s voice hurt.

“He trusts you,” he said softly.

More silence. Bucky felt the tension in the air. Thick to breathe. He heard Steve say something but it was overlapped by a commotion in the hallway and he missed exactly what was said. The next moments footsteps signalled the man’s departure. Silence echoed in the room for only a moment. “You can stop pretending now,” he heard Rumlow sigh. He opened his eyes to find the man giving him a stern look.

He sat up with a yawn, cracking his neck as he made his way back to the chair he’d vacated earlier. “Feel better?” Rumlow asked. Bucky hummed a yes as he scrubbed grit from his eyes. “What’d Steve want?” he asked. “Nothing you need to worry about,” Rumlow said. Bucky glared but the agent didn’t even blink. “Why are you still here?” his former handler said pointedly. Bucky swallowed thickly, words getting stuck in his throat. He’d come for a reason but now that he had to confront it, he froze.

“Go home, kid,” the man said gently. “No,” Bucky replied mulishly. “Stop. Just stop. Winter—,” Rumlow tried, eyes growing desperate. “I said I remembered everything,” Bucky interrupted, forcing the words past stiff lips. “You think I wouldn’t remember Austria?” That brought the older man up short. He stared in shock, dark eyes wide. 

Bucky wasn’t sure how long ago the op in Austria was, but it had to have been early on in Rumlow’s run as his handler. In the memories the man's hair was jet black, no grey threading through the temples. No crows feet crinkling around his eyes when he smiled. 

 

_An op gone wrong left Bucky and Rumlow the only two alive, one suffering a bullet wound to his flesh shoulder and left thigh and the other with two broken ankles. A freak snowstorm forced them to take shelter in a rundown hunter’s shack and to make matters worse, they didn’t get an evac for over two weeks._

_Needless to say, by day four whatever drugs they kept circulating in Bucky’s system had worn off. By day eight, he couldn’t sleep without being wrenched awake by night terrors and by day ten, his memories had begun to return. They were a jumble, confusing and scary. Rumlow was there for everything, talking him back from the edge of terrified panic. He’d been patient with the fragile man, making sure Bucky was drinking water even if he couldn’t keep down the MREs._

_Day fourteen, the firewood ran out. With high snow drifts and both men sporting leg injuries, foraging for firewood wasn’t an option. Thankfully, a side effect of the experiments done on Bucky was that his body ran hot. He was like a portable space heater and they ended up zipping their sleeping bags together and keeping warm that way._

_The morning of day sixteen saw him waking up sprawled across his handler, his injured leg hooked across the other man’s hips. He stretched, felt something stir, and froze. He heard Rumlow’s breath stuttered in his chest and glanced up to find a flush creeping up the man’s neck. “Ah, sorry,” the man said, clearing his throat with an uncomfortable chuckle._

_“ ’s fine,” Bucky murmured, words slurred and lazy in a sleepy Brooklyn accent. “I’ve always fancied a guy in uniform.” He smirked at the gobsmacked expression on the older man’s face. “What’s the matter, dollface?” he drawled. “Cat got your tongue?” And then he leaned up and pressed his lips against Rumlow’s._

 

 

“You kissed me back,” Bucky said, seeing the same shocked expression in the man’s eyes as he had that cold morning in Austria. The monitor began to shriek as the man’s heart rate tripled and his breath stuttered. “Breathe,” he soothed, clasping his flesh hand around Rumlow’s wrist.

Rumlow was taking a rough unsteady breath as a matronly nurse swept into the room. “Now what’s all this commotion?” she said reproachfully, glaring down at Bucky as she rounded the other side of the bed. “It’s fine,” his former handler breathed, not taking his shocked gaze away from Bucky’s. “I’ll be the judge of that, agent,” the woman said crisply, taking his vitals. She pointed to the call button. “This is here for a reason. On a scale from one to ten, how much pain are you in?”

“Four,” Rumlow said gruffly. He glanced up at her, finding himself pinned with a stern stare. “Eight,” he amended, slouching ever so slightly against the pillows like a scolded schoolboy. Now Bucky was glaring. The nurse was brisk and professional, administering painkillers and updating charts. She left, but not before giving Bucky the warning that he’d be kicked out if the patient’s heartbeat so much as skipped another beat.

“You better behave,” Bucky murmured teasingly. “I wouldn’t want to cross Nurse Ratched over there. What?” he added, seeing the man's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “Had to start with the classics.” Rumlow huffed a rough laugh, eyes beginning to glaze over a little. He was clearly struggling against it, blinking owlishly. “It’s okay,” Bucky said, sliding his hand carefully down to clasp the bandaged hand.

“Get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Tha’ a promise?” Rumlow slurred, voice slurred and thick with drugs and exhaustion. Bucky couldn’t help the warm feeling that curled around his chest. “Yeah,” he said gently. “That’s a promise.” The man’s lips split into a grin even as his eyes fluttered closed.

_“Lucky me.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Favourite chapter so far to write. Hope you all enjoyed!


	5. Favour

It had been two days since the Triskelion fell, since HYDRA failed and Brock had escaped the debris with nothing but the clothes on his back. He’d holed up in a safe house just outside of DC to regroup and patch himself up before fleeing to Bucharest, or maybe Prague. Bali was also nice this time of year. He hadn’t had a proper vacation in over twenty years.

He was packing a go bag, stripping the small room of all essentials, when he heard a soft knock at the door. Brock froze, hand straying to the loaded Glock that sat on the coffee table. It couldn’t be SHIELD or even HYDRA, surely. The chaos was still too great, both organizations exposed and scrambling. Government officials would be too busy dealing with the destruction on Roosevelt Island. Still, no need to take any chances. He held the gun easily in front of his chest as he used the peephole to look out into the rundown hallway.

Brock nearly dropped the weapon as he took in the familiar long hair peaking out from under a ball cap and hood. He hesitated, unsure what to do. The fact that the Asset was here meant that he’d failed his mission. He should have gone back to the vault, or if that was compromised to one of the many predetermined collection points. Instead he was here, in a safe-house that wasn’t on any record with either organization, filed under one of Brock’s many aliases. Part of Brock wanted to just put a bullet in him through the door right here and now. The other wanted to just escape out onto the fire escape. In the end, he didn’t have a chance to decide between either.

“I can hear you breathing,” the Asset sighed, keeping his head tipped down and hidden. Against all of his better judgements, while his instincts were screaming at him not to, Brock opened the door. He couldn’t do anything but stare in numb shock at the wet and bedraggled form of the Asset where he stood in the doorway, staring pointedly at the floorboards.

“I need a favour,” the man mumbled softly.

Brock blinked.

“Get in here before someone sees you,” he hissed, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't live to regret this; or perhaps would live might be more appropriate. He hustled the man inside, shooting a quick glance down the hallway before locking the door securely. He turned to find the Asset standing in the middle of the living room.

“Why are you here?” Brock snapped, fingers shifting uneasily against the grip of his gun that he wasn’t ready to put down yet. The Asset said nothing. “You hurt?” Brock asked, tone slightly gentler. He’d always had a soft spot for the Asset. He’d always treated him as a soldier, not just a weapon. That wasn’t something his superiors had been able to beat out of him. The silence stretched for too long and Brock finally sighed in defeat. He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans, biting back a curse as he grabbed the first aid kit from under the kitchen sink.

Without any prompting, the Asset shrugged off the ratty hoody, revealing his black tactical gear he was still wearing. Buckles and straps were undone and moments later, the Asset was only wearing a tight fitting black tank top. Bruises mottled around the man’s flesh shoulder, looking weeks old when Brock knew they were only mere days. The prosthetic arm seemed to have been damaged. A few of the plates were not lying correctly. Above all, the man looked tired. Dark circles bruised under blue eyes that looked fevers and a little hazy.

“Okay, how about you disarm and then I can patch you up, sound good?” Brock asked, sharp eyes noting the slight curve of a handgun where it sat snug against the man’s lower back, and the outline of a knife pressing against the side of his pant leg. Brock really didn’t expect the man to say anything, he rarely did, but he was surprised with how willingly the Asset stripped himself of his weapons. A 9mm Glock was placed next to a large hunting knife on the coffee table. Brock had a feeling that wasn’t all of them but he said nothing. He was too unnerved by the look of trust he saw in the Asset’s pale eyes.

“Right, easy does it.” A hand to the Asset’s side had the man flinching away, pain flickering across his face. “Sorry,” Brock murmured as he slowly lifted the black fabric. He hissed sympathetically at the dark bruising that was scattered across a muscular abdomen. He carefully hiked the shirt up higher, revealing more bruising and a line of crisp, dark lettering that had him freezing in shock.

It had never occurred to him that the Asset might have a soulmate.

There were many theories about where the Asset had come from. Some said he was a Red Room brat, true blooded Russian ghost on loan to the Americans. Others thought he was some American traitor or POW who'd been brainwashed into compliance. The green recruits liked the idea of him being a test tube lab experiment but none of the older agents gave that theory much salt. Brock had never given any of the theories must thought, preferring to focus on doing his job and not dying while doing it.

_You’re safe, Soldier. Stand down_

The words felt comforting, gentle even, as Brock read them. His finger’s itched to touch them, to trace the narrow lettering that slated sharply to the right. The feeling was completely inappropriate and he squashed the impulse. He felt the Asset still and he realized he’d been staring. “Your ribs are broken,” he said gruffly, tugging the shirt back down and snatching a tenser bandage from the kit. Uncomfortable feelings were welling up in his chest, the first and foremost guilt.

Brock himself had a soul mark. It traced his inner bicep in a neat, looping hand. It had worried his mother to no end when he had been little. The harsh and threatening nature of the words had her thinking he’d end up in an abusive relationship. As Brock got older, he understood that her opinion was more of a projection of her own past with his asshole father than a reflection of what his future held. That being said, he’d had spent more than one night lying on his side, tracing the looping words with a fingertip, wondering what situation would prompt his soulmate to speak such violent words. He’d never found out.

He forced those uncomfortable memories to the back of his head and turned back to the Asset, only to find him staring at him with an odd look in his eye. “I need to wrap your ribs,” Brock explained, holding up the bandage for the other man to see. “It was snowing,” the Asset said. “What?” Brock snapped.

“It was snowing,” the other man said again. “Prague, I think. Or maybe somewhere in Belgium, I can’t remember. But I remember it was snowing.” Brock could only stare, bandages forgotten where they were clutched in tense fingers. He’d never heard the Asset string that many words together in a single sentence.

“It was snowing when you said my words.”

Brock blinked. “I…what?” he stuttered, struggling to shift the gears in his brain without a clutch. “It was before you were my handler,” the Asset continued. “It was the mission that prompted Pierce to assign you to my team.” _Not possible_ , Brock's brain screamed. “No,” he said sharply, barely able to process the meaning behind what the man was telling him. “No, I… they’re common enough words, given what we… I don’t even remember fucking saying them!” he protested. “They fucking scrambled your brain on a regular basis, you’re just remembering wrong—,”

“I remember,” the Asset said sternly, eyes flashing as he took a step forward. In a breath, Brock was at arms length, the barrel of his Sig nestled between the Asset’s eyes. “Let’s not do anything stupid.” He barely got the words out before he found himself disarmed and on his back with a few hundred pounds of assassin pinning him down. His own gun was nestled against the hollow of his throat and pale ice blue eyes stared coldly down at him.

“Okay,” Brock said slowly, raising his hands in careful surrender. “Now let’s really not do anything stupid.” The Asset said nothing. The gun didn’t even waver as he transferred it to his metal left hand. His right gripped Brock’s wrist in an iron hold, yanking it up. A sharp twist just on the tolerable side of painful bared his inner bicep and the words that were branded there.

_Stay down, if you know what’s good for you_

Brock swallowed thickly, dark eyes flicking up to meet blue. “You don’t speak Russian, do you?” the Asset asked softly. “The fuck kinda question is that?” Brock snapped, all too aware of the cold gun metal pressing against his clavicle. “Do you?” the Asset repeated with a growl, fingers tightening. “No, I don’t fucking speak Russian, fuck!” Brock spat, feeling the bones of his wrist grind together.

“ _Oставайся, если знаешь что тебе полезно_ ,” the Asset murmured, guttural words rolling off the tongue smoothly. Brock froze. The words themselves he didn’t understand but the sound of them brought a memory echoing forward from the back of his mind.

He’d just been assigned as the Asset’s handler. Pierce had wanted to see how he held up against him in a fight, as apparently they’d had problems in the past with the Asset attacking his handlers. Brock still wasn’t sure if it was actually true or if it had just been a scare tactic. Either way, he ended up in an unarmed sparring match with the Russian ghost himself.

Brock had ended up on the mats three times and each time he’d gotten back up, slightly more bloody than the time before. He’d been thrown down a fourth and final time with a dislocated shoulder and, which he found of later, a cracked orbit and three broken ribs. The Asset had stared down at him with that frozen emotionless stare and spoken in a clipped and precise manner before stalking off the mats. Brock had asked what he’d said. The tech had said he didn’t want to know.

“Stay down if you know what’s good for you,” the Asset whispered.

The grip on Brock’s wrist slowly changed into something gentler. His thumb brushed along Brock’s pulse point, making the hairs on his arm shiver and Brock’s breath catch in his chest. “You didn’t even recognize your own handwriting,” he added, brow furrowing as his tone showed his incredulity. “Yeah well, my teachers always said I wasn’t too bright,” Brock said softly, voice sounding only a little strained. He reached up a slow hand, aware that the Sig was still resting lightly against his throat. His fingers bunched up the black material, carefully exposing the words on the Asset’s side.

_You’re safe, Soldier. Stand down_

Now he could see it, the sharp slant and neat letters that betrayed the Catholic school where any mistake landed him with a ruler across the knuckles, and the backwards _A's_ that had developed in defiance of the harsh upbringing. “Well shit,” Brock murmured intelligently, fingers gently brushing over the line of words. He felt a shiver rippled through the Asset’s body, something shifting in the man’s eyes. The Sig disappeared and a hand tangled itself in the front of his t-shirt, dragging him up and then chapped lips were pressed against his.

Poets and storytellers had long romanticized the soul bonding experience, describing it as finally finding something you hadn’t know was missing. Songs and movies described it as a euphoric and spiritual experience, with literal and figurative fireworks and shooting stars. Modern science disturbed it as the brain creating an overwhelming release of oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin during the moment of realization.

Brock just felt safe.

It didn’t make sense, considering that he had seen the metallic left hand that was currently cupped against the back of his neck crush a man’s windpipe as easily as paper. It didn’t make sense because he’d seen those ice blue eyes vacant and empty as the’d gunned down a woman in cold blood and now they were warm and scared and so full of emotion that it knocked the breath from Brock’s lungs when he pulled away just enough to get a good look at him.

“I don’t even know your name,” he whispered. He watched as the Asset’s throat rolled, those pale eyes flicking to the side nervously. He licked his lips and Brock couldn’t stop his eyes from tracing the motion. “I…,” the Asset said stutteringly. His eyes flicked up to Brock’s and held. Whatever he found there seemed to bolster him and he took a deep breath.

“I think my name is James.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one! What pairing will be next? It'll probably be a while before I add on to this story but I will eventually. Someone suggested a rare Brock/Clint mashup. Lemme know what you think! Feedback is my fairy dust! xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you're enjoying the continuation of these one-word prompted stories! Feedback is my fairy dust! Thanks to everyone for the kind words on all my works. It's super flattering. You're all the reason I keep posting!! xx
> 
> Also, may I say, what are the odds I pull Terminator out of a random word generator for a Bucky Barnes story?!


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